Faith For The Faithless
by Sleeping Dragons Die
Summary: There comes a time for deception and a time for truth, but in bringing faith to the faithless there is room for neither. Even Voldemort cannot afford to loose this game. In response to book 6.
1. Chapter 1

**Faith For The Faithless**

**Chapter One in Perm, Russia**

The factory the Deatheaters were stationed in during the month of January had been uninhabited since 1788 to muggle eyes. The floors of thick concrete were covered with a layer of straw to serve as a temporary carpet; the tall, narrow corridors smelt dank and mildew covered patches of the war; in places the walls had tumbled down enough for the river outside to be seen. In the entrance hall, rusty nails on which once the tattered woollen coats of workers had hung were bent double, and graffiti had been scrawled in Russian on the walls; crude words designed to impress the next child who dared to steel their courage and skulk in. The bitter winter wind whistled through the broken windows above the three metres of snow piled outside. It was a pitiful sight.

Peter Dunwronk crouched next to a metal bin holding all that could be conjured of a fire, pitiful orange flames. Over the Deatheater garb he wore a thick fur that had turned grey with disuse, and he shivered into the turned up collar violently. The three pair of gloves he wore did nothing to ease the growing stiffness of his thick fingers. His hair, underneath a fur lined woollen cap, was matted and filthy. His companion was trying hard not to breathe in too deeply, and had huddled his impeccably black furs around his body so tightly he appeared not to have the bare, hairless skin of a human beneath them. Dunwronk swore, and inched closer to the fire. His companion inched sideways, away.

"Wh' did 'e choose _Russia_ in win'_er_?"

"It isn't for you to question, Dunwronk," his companion sniffed disdainfully and stood up to stretch his cramped legs, "you just do what you're told."

Dunwronk regarded the other Deatheater with derision, and a hint of curiosity.

"If you's so 'igh an' migh'y, why are youse 'ere wi' th'likes o' me?"

The more senior Deatheater snarled, baring a set of perfectly white teeth, and squatted on the floor again, shivering. He did not answer the question, and Dunwronk did not ask again, although he continued to watch the younger man with bright, agitated eyes. The snow stopped pouring down, and evening gathered in. The temperatures plunged and both Deatheaters moved closer to the fire, regardless of their dislike of the other.

"What's that?"

Dunwronk pulled himself up as quickly as his companion had done and peered into the snow filled gloom. Weaving their way over the top of the snow spread on all fours like an animal was a figure. Dunwronk and the other shared a glance, and leapt onto the snow. There was a bleat like a wounded animal, and all three bodies tumbled into the snow, a mess of wands and fists and fur.

The senior Deatheater was the first to emerge from the snow, tremors wracking his frozen, wet body. His hat was gone and blonde hair that covered his shoulders fell in disarray around his pale, blue face with its pointed chin and wide, swarthy eyes. He wrapped his arms around himself in a valiant attempt to warm up as he staggered towards the fire. Dunwronk followed closely behind, hauling someone by their ankles. His captive was wrapped in so many furs in differing shades of grey and black it was impossible to see the figure beneath it, and the face was wound about with a thick layer of black wool and netting to fine it was a wonder any sight was possible.

Dunwronk ripped the headscarf off ruthlessly, and stuffed it into one of his voluminous pockets with an ill concealed look of glee. The figure was female, with curly, dull brown hair that scattered all over her face, and bright honey eyes that peered up at her captors. The Deatheaters looked at each other and grinned jubilantly.

"We'll take her to the Dark Lord," the blonde commanded.

The girl was seized by her upper arms and dragged along the corridor. The two Deatheaters moved so quickly that at times her feet lost control and the dragged her around several corners, bumping her up a flight of rotten wooden stairs. They pushed her through a narrow doorway, and a sudden blast of heat enveloped them.

"Shut the door!" a harassed, high pitched voice yelped, and Dunwronk kicked the door behind him.

Both Dunwronk and his companion fell to their fours and crawled along the floors, face down. When they looked up, they were beside a large winged armchair, embroidered in rich velvet, placed in front of the fire. In it sat the Dark Lord, reclining in thin fur robes with a glass of red wine clutched in his reptilian hand. Slanting red eyes peered at them, and when he spoke shivers passed down their spines.

"My good and noble Lord, who fights so valiantly for His cause-"

"What isss it Malfoy? Why do you disssturb our peaccce?"

Draco Malfoy looked up and kissed the bottom of the fur lined robes.

"My Lord," he gasped, sweating in the warmth of the fire and the thick robes, "I have found an insurgent in the snow!"

"I can sssee that," Voldemort replied dryly, "I am not infirm, you fool."

"May the health and strength of my Lord last without end," Malfoy repeated mindlessly, "what is it that my Lord wishes done with the girl?"

"My Lord," a deep baritone interrupted the conversation, "may I speak?"

"Of courssse," Voldemort looked delighted as he regarded the thin, ebony haired man sitting close to him, "Ssseverus, it isss a pleasssant day indeed when you ssspeak."

Severus Snape bowed low in his seat and stood to stand in front of the prisoner who was held by Dunwronk. Peter Pettigrew watched the dark man pace around the girl nervously, and glanced at the door to see if it had been shut properly to prevent drafts swirling around the narrow, crowded room. The girl met Snape's eyes firmly, and then looked down at the floor as if she was humiliated by what his empty gaze held. Finally he looked back at the Dark Lord.

"My Lord, the girl was my apprentice."

"Apprenticcce?" Voldemort slithered, and leant further towards the standing group from his armchair.

"Indeed, my Lord, the girl has been receiving private tuition from me for almost two years, with the aim of expanding her considerable brains in the direction of your power. She has been a great help."

"Why isss ssshe here, in Perm in January?"

"I seek knowledge from _my_ Professor."

All five men in the room turned to the girl in surprise. She was staring with rapture in her eyes at Snape. A little smile played around her lips.

"After you left, _Sir_," she dragged out the 'sir' until it sent shivers of repulsion down Pettigrew's neck, "I had trouble finding another Potions' Master of such _acceptance_ towards the dark arts. Even Pallius Simop shows little tolerance."

"So you wandered into a Deatheater camp to find me?" Snape was incredulous.

"I wasn't aware you would be with the Deatheaters, sir, but it is knowledge I want, not safety."

There was complete silence, and then a wheezing laugh started from behind Snape. He turned, startled, to see the Dark Lord with tears of mirth streaming down his scaly face. The Dark Lord waved a hand at them, and Dunwronk unwillingly released his captive.

"Ssseverusss," he hissed once he had regained himself, "the girl cannot be allowed to leave thisss compound."

"Of course Master."

"What isss the name of thisss remarkable apprentice of yoursss?"

"Notitia²."

"The old cussstomsss of one new name, excccellant. You ssshall teach her knowledge, Ssseverusss, and onccce ssshe hasss learnt, you ssshall bring her to be marked."

Notitia stood stiffly as Snape beckoned her and forced the back of her neck down in a bow to the Dark Lord. Seizing her by the shoulder and digging his thin fingers into the dip beneath the bone, he forced her towards the door with an immobile face. The door slammed behind them in an eddy of icy wind and left them in the frozen corridor.

"Watch your steps," the Professor snapped, "the ground is slippery."

His apprentice made no reply, but followed him mutely along the damp corridor and down to a warded door at the end of the darkness. He whispered the incantations softly and pushed her inside the doorway. The room beyond was no larger than a double elevator. As Snape lit the candles, vials and jars flickered into view, balanced on unstable shelves over cauldrons. In the far corner a pallet bed lay, made of straw and patched cotton. A second pair of robes and thick furs lay draped over it. The floor was the same concrete as the corridor, but covered with a tatty piece of velvet, worn along the edges.

"Why did you come?"

Snape seized her by the arms and swung her around to face him until there was less than a hairsbreadth between them. She gasped, startled by the sudden increase in heat the close bodies brought.

"I want knowledge," she answered defiantly, "I need knowledge."

"It is foolish!" he roared, and the silencing charms trembled alarmingly, "What good will it bring you?"

"Someone needs you, Professor, and it isn't only me. It's the son of the girl you loved, all those years ago. I know you hate him, but there are others as well."

"Why did you come to me? I murdered the one who could save us."

"Because I have faith in you," she replied softly.

"Because you were the only one who _would_," he contradicted her, "no one else believes what you think is true. Why do you carry on being faithful?"

"Just because no one else believes it, doesn't mean it is not true."

He dropped her arms suddenly and turned away from her.

"How long have you been travelling for?"

"Three days without breaks."

"Then sleep. You are more use to me an idiot than an exhausted fool."

He motioned to the pallet bed, and she stepped towards it obediently, a sudden exhaustion filling her leaden limbs.

"Take your furs off first," he countered.

The bed was not comfortable and it was cool even with two layers of furs and two pairs of robes. The hay tickled her naked legs and itched behind her knees as her hair spread all over the pillow. She was dimly aware of his voice swearing loudly before she fell asleep, still hungry and thirsty.

Severus Snape put an extra ward on the door once he had finished swearing, and walked with an outward appearance of perfect calmness towards the State Room. Voldemort was sitting back in his chair, but consuming everything that Draco Malfoy was saying with an inhumane hunger. The blonde was sitting on his hunches as close to the fire as he dared, embellishing everything about the feeble story. Dunwronk, his companion, had been sent away, presumably back to sentry duty, and Wormtail was in the corner looking distinctly put out at the attention Malfoy was receiving. Voldemort glanced up when Snape shut the door behind him, and gestured him to the armchair by the fire. Malfoy glared.

"I think that will be enough, Malfoy," Voldemort dismissed him; "You have done reasssonably well, ssso you may return to your chambersss."

Malfoy looked elated at the prospect of a single chamber again rather than the freezing bunks and communal beds the lower ranks had to share. As he turned to leave, the Dark Lord addressed him again;

"After you have completed your three hoursss on sssentry duty."

Malfoy hunched his shoulders, but knew better than to show annoyance in front of the Dark Lord. Voldemort turned to face Snape, swivelling around in his chair to look at this most trusted of servants.

"You took the girl to your roomsss?"

"Yes Lord. She is sleeping as we speak."

"I am sssurprisssed you let her sssleep," Voldemort leered, and Snape raised his eyebrows fluidly.

"My Lord," he inserted a note of carefully shock into his tone, "I would do no such thing with my student."

"Of courssse," Voldemort looked amused; Snape was sick to the stomach.

The sat in silence while Wormtail poured a glass of brandy for each of them. Once the servant had retreated, Voldemort continued their conversation.

"How long will ssshe ssstay?"

"As long as my Lord permits and she is useful."

"She'll be ussseful for a bed-warmer if nothing elssse. Keep her here asss long asss you want. Perhapsss I will converssse with her a little; if you call her 'notitia' then she mussst indeed be wissse."

"Thank you Lord, you are most gracious to those undeserving of your kindness."

Voldemort dismissed Snape by standing and gathering the long ermine robes about his thin frame. As the Deatheater entered his chamber, the gentle rise and fall of Granger's breathing caught him by surprise and he whipped his wand out instinctively. She continued to sleep with her breath drawing out in ribbons of mist, even as he threw a beaker at the wall above her head in rage at being here, now. The glass landed in the bed and he sighed as he dropped his robes on top of the bed and squeezed his slim body between the furs, folding his arms across his chest so he did not accidentally touch her.

The bed was warm, he fell asleep quickly.

² Notitia is Latin, meaning 'knowledge'


	2. Of Dissent

**Faith For The Faithless**

**Chapter Two, of Dissent **

The sound of a nasal whining woke Hermione up. The comfortable warmth of the bed had been replaced with a chilly breeze from flung back furs and her breath was freezing in front of her face. The door to the little room was partially opened, and the rodent face of Peter Pettigrew was peering through and talking to Snape. Snape was wrapped in a pair of black furs, back to the room, hissing at the errant servant in disdain.

"Snape, I know what I saw!" Wormtail's voice rose desperately.

"And what you saw is blasphemy;" Snape replied in a low tone, "forget you even glimpsed it."

"And what of the Dark Lord? We are all lost without him!"

"The Dark Lord is not going anywhere, Pettigrew, but you will be if you persist in bandying these rumours about. You are not a fish-wife, you are a Deatheater. Try to summon that famous Gryffindor courage and remember it."

"I ought to have known not to come to you, Snape! What do you care of the Dark Lord's ailment? You are still caught up in your petty childhood!"

Snape leant closer to the door, blocking out all shards of light and casting the room into a dim grey.

"But _I_ am not being hunted by my childhood friends. You would do well to remember your superiors, Pettigrew. Do not question the Dark Lord _or_ myself again!"

"You are being a fool, Snape, and you will rue the day you did not heed me!"

Hermione heard Snape's derisive laughter as he shut the door, but the laugh was stopped as soon as the door was slammed wand warded. The room was plunged into blackness once more, and the girl held her breath with bated apprehension. Seconds later a dim flame flickered into life, as if it had been at a great distance and travelling forward rapidly, until it grew and bathed the room in a yellow-grey pallor. Snape was standing over a cauldron, under which the flame had been lit, and examining it closely. He picked up jars and vials in his long fingers and read the labels with the contents swirling and bubbling before his eyes. Finally he stacked them up again and turned the flame down until dark shadows formed everywhere except on the bright gleam of the cauldron edges. The heavy furs landed back on the bed, and Hermione turned to study the wall as Snape slid in next to her.

Peter Pettigrew slunk down the corridor from Snape's room muttering and cursing under his breath. As his feet scrabbled across the hay covered floor he drew ever closer to the main dormitories of the Daetheaters; not all were so lucky as Snape. The dormitory he first entered was lit by a series of tallow candles and a large fire that cast very little warmth into the freezing room. Ice had gathered along the windowsills and in the occasional water glasses. Huddled around the fire were four Deatheaters in thick furs and robes, conversing roughly.

"Pettigrew," one greeted, shuffling up along the bench a little and pushing his companions along, "bring us any news?"

"Snape's brought a girl into his rooms," Pettigrew answered moodily, holding his hands out to the tiny bit of warmth offered.

Over by one of the bunks, Draco Malfoy stopped gathering his belongings together and looked up with interest. Pettigrew was welcome in the dormitories as a bringer of news, but he was always given the coldest seat or th4e smallest portion. He was not a popular man; no one could forget he had betrayed his friends out, or that Voldemort had chosen him as the faithful servant. The other Deatheater looked interested.

"A girl? What kind of girl?" he questioned.

"She says she's his apprentice," whined Wormtail, "said she came seeking knowledge or something. I don't believe a word of it."

"You ought to," Malfoy had moved over to where they were talking and stood in front of the brazier, "believe what you're told, because Snape won't give you anymore information."

"You mean Snape won't give _you_ any more information," the older Deatheater corrected smugly, "I was at his chambers this morning."

"Yes, yes?" Malfoy gave the clambering masses a disdainful look.

"She was in his bed!"

Wormtail leant in closer to the fire as he gave this tit-bit of information, assured of a good reception. The larger Deatheater with the thick forehead leapt to his feet and cursed loudly as he slammed his fist against the bench his companions sat on.

"So this is it! We slave and freeze for the Dark Lord and Snape sits there like a pretty boy and is rewarded with a girl!"

"Calm down McIver," Malfoy drawled, propping himself with one elbow on the edge of the stove.

"Why should I?" McIver roared fiercely, prowling along the narrow space between bench and blaze, "I gave the Dark Lord the best years of my life, and now I give him my full strength, and see how he rewards us! Snape was a boy when he joined us, he is younger than us! It is against the old ways to elevate such youth!"

"You have been badly treated," Malfoy assured him, "perhaps the Dark Lord has forgotten the way the purebloods do these things?"

"Do not speak against the Dark Lord!" the man next to McIver stirred and glared at Malfoy, "If you believed the things you spoke, you would dismiss your rooms and remain here with us! Begone foul tongued youth!"

Malfoy growled under his breath, but as McIver lunged towards him, the younger Deatheater returned to his temporary bedding. Once again Wormtail leant forward with information, and Malfoy strained his ears.

"There is more, comrades," Wormtail spoke in a hush, "this morning when everyone but I was asleep – even Nagini – the Dark Lord convulsed."

"Convulsed? You mean He had a fit?" the thinner, older Deatheater looked earnestly at Peter in worry.

"Exactly! His whole body shook violently several times and then shuddered a little. He has not yet woken up!"

"But it is nearly noon!"

"Indeed. But it did no affect Nagini at all, that is what was so odd. But you must let me get back to the Lord; He will want me there when Snape arrives with his tricky potions."

"The Lord is taking potions?" McIver asked, eyes narrowed.

"To restore his strength! There is nothing untoward with that, and they are made from unicorn blood. Now I must leave."

As Wormtail scurried from the room, the four Deatheaters moved together tightly and began discussing this information. Presently a smaller man left the group and hurried into the corridor, checking to make sure no one was there. As Malfoy followed out of curiosity, the man entered a larger dorm further along the corridor and began retelling Wormtail's news and what they thought. Voices rose angrily, and then in concern and doubt as Malfoy passed the doors towards his rooms.

As he passed the door to Voldemort's room, Snape hurtled out of them. His face was completely white and he was carrying four vials of large dimensions. As the door shut behind him, Malfoy could hear Wormtail shrieking loudly.

"Snape!" he called suddenly, "Professor!"

Snape stopped momentarily and looked behind him.

"What do you want?" he barked.

"There are rumours flying, Professor, about the Dark Lord."

"What kind of rumours?"

"That he had a fit this morning," Malfoy's voice dropped, "and still isn't receiving audiences?"

"Do not think on such things, Malfoy. Concern yourself with your work."

"We have no work Professor. Apart from sitting in the freezing wind on guard duty, we are doing nothing here except hide from the aurors. The ranks are getting restless."

"That is no concern of yours, Malfoy."

"There are complaints about your female as well."

"The apprentice?"

"I know who she is Snape. Do you think I'm blind or stupid? I've only attended six years of school with her, and it's a miracle Crabbe and Goyle haven't seen her and blown your cover."

"You shut your mouth boy."

Snape seized Malfoy by his upper arm and opened the wards to his rooms. There was an illumination of a kind from the large window, but most of the daylight was blocked by squares of velvet patching. The light gleamed off dusty and shining bottles and copper. On an upended cauldron by the window sat Snape's apprentice, with papers spread over her knees and a quill in her mouth. She barely looked up when Snape entered, but shuffled the papers around a little.

"Malfoy knows your little secret, Granger."

She looked up, perfectly calm, and remarked;

"He would have to be remarkably stupid not to have noticed me after he leapt on me in the snow."

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy asked her harshly.

"Keeping Professor Snape's bed warm," she answered coolly, not looking up from her work.

Malfoy looked at the neatly made bed, heaped with double furs, and shivered. Professor Snape was standing with his arms folded across his body, watching her with interest in his ebony eyes. As Malfoy caught his eye, he lifted an eyebrow as if to remark on Malfoy's shock.

"Why did you come?"

"Because I need knowledge. It didn't help that you caught me."

"You were spying then? We did catch a spy!"

"Indeed. Congratulations Malfoy, you managed to catch me a pleasant enough bed warmer and a tidy little housemaid as well."

As Snape spoke he caressed the top of her head in a gesture of ownership, and she jotted something down on a piece of parchment. Malfoy stepped up close to her, so close that her outer furs brushed his. Her eyes met his levelly, shining brown in the dim daylight.

"Nobody gets out, you know," he said softly, so that Snape leant forward, "you aren't _any_ use to anyone any more."

"Incorrect Malfoy," Snape interrupted smoothly, "she is most useful to me."

"Did you believe he was a spy for Dumbeldore?"

As Malfoy inclined his head towards Snape seriously, she met his eyes again briefly.

"Perhaps," was the level answer, "didn't you at one point?"

"Not all of us are as desperate for information as you are, Granger. Some of us have more than enough."

"How fortunate. You would need it with your lack of brains."

Malfoy sneered as Snape turned away to a low cauldron belching forth yellow fog. He leant in closer to the girl, face to face with her. Her hair tickled his smooth skin slightly, rubbing back and forth against his own stubble, catching in the blonde grains of beard. He was so close that every individual eyelash seemed to sway against his own, and so that when they spoke, their lips flickered briefly over each other.

"Be careful, Granger," he breathed, "there is no escape from the Dark Lord."

"I do not intend to escape," she replied, and suddenly his lips were too dry and he wanted to lick them, "I will walk out when this place lies in ruins of chaos."

He pulled his face back suddenly, shocked at her confidence. Without a second glance she returned to her parchment, which he saw were made out with a detailed account of the proceedings of three days ago, when she had been captured. Next to them was a crude pen and ink drawing or herself crouching in the snow, with a prediction sight line drawn from a pair of eyes. He realised they must have been his – she was working out what had gone wrong.

He left the room with Snape looking indifferently at him, and opened the door next in the drafty corridor. The room was the same as Snape's; old store cupboards long forgotten. In one corner was a straw pallet covered loosely with a linen sheet, which he tossed his three pairs of furs onto. Tired after sentry duty, he piled his belongings into a small heap and eased his aching body into bed. It was cold; the sheet was slightly damp, the straw musty, the furs had gathered a layer of frost on top of them. Next door he could hear the low murmur of conversation, and a sharp barking command. From the other side, there was silence, only interjected with brief bursts of movement from either Snape or Hermione.

He noticed the ceiling was mouldy as he fell asleep.

Snape paused in his duties and added three drops of _digitalis_ to the cauldron, with Hermione watching him with sharp eyes.

**DISCLAIMER**: Sleeping Dragons Die would like to remind all reading that the characters used in _Faith For The Faithless_ belong to J.K. Rowling and not to the author. The situations are purely hypothetical.


	3. Porridge and Malfoy's Potter

**Faith For The Faithless**

**Chapter Three: Porridge and Malfoy's Potter**

There was silence in the cramped room as Severus Snape woke up awkwardly. Two weeks after she had arrived, he was no less comfortable sleeping in her bed with her warm body next to his clammy skin. Unfortunately for his sense of dignity, she apparently did not have the same inhabitations; her long cold legs were wrapped around a single one of his, one of her arms was draped over his thin chest. His breath spiralled up in front of him as he stared into the gloomy half light of the dingy room.

He moved her arm cautiously, not particularly wanting her to wake up and cause more disdain between them. She swallowed a little, but allowed him to drape the offending limb over her own stomach. He left her legs where they were; he knew that moving those would wake her up suddenly, and she would not even look him in the eye for the entire day. His breath froze in the clear air.

"Stupid girl," he murmured, rolling over onto his side to peer into the room and drifting back to sleep again.

Hermione was woken moments later by a freezing arm snaking its way around her warm waist. Sighing irritably she removed it firmly over to his side of the bed. Within seconds of her turning her back on him, the arm was back again.

"Imagine," she whispered to him rather spitefully, wishing he was awake so she could watch him shift uneasily, "the scary Deatheater likes cuddling."

Snape was fast asleep with little snores permeating the air next to her ear, so naturally he made no reply. Hermione, whose stomach was breaking out in goose-bumps as his frozen skin bore into hers, rolled her eyes in annoyance, and moved his hand again. This time she sat up before he could wrap his appendages around her again, and clutched a fur around her shoulders. The air around her hung heavily in the dim light drifting through the thick velvet curtains.

She was squatting by the fire when Snape sat up and pulled furs over his head, her thighs and lower legs hidden by the thick furs and cloaks she wore. There was a look of intense concentration on her face as she stirred a small green plant into the cauldron.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Cooking," she answered blithely, still peering into the pot.

"What?"

"Cooking. Making food."

"Food? Where did you get food from?"

She looked up at him in surprise at the odd sounding break in his voice.

"From the storerooms," she answered.

He gazed at her in horror.

"How did you get into the storerooms?"

The look she gave him did not inspire his confidence. Her eyes were open wide and falsely innocent, and there was a little smile playing about her lips. He shivered as a burst of cold air swirled through the room.

"It's hot," she stated, as if he could not see the steam rising from it.

"I am not deficient Granger," he answered coldly.

She made no reply, but got up from her hunches and crossed the room. He rolled his eyes, and when he looked again she was kneeling in front of the cauldron ladling something into it. When she stood up, she was holding a bowl in both of her hands with a miniature ladle lying on top of the thick porridge. A mint smell rose up from it, and he ate it quickly.

It wasn't until she was eating calmly from her own bowl and he had almost finished his second bowl that he noticed the runes around the edge of the vessel. He spluttered and spat the mouthful he was chewing back into the bowl.

"This is the virgin-blood bowl!"

She looked at him levelly.

"That bowl has to be completely pure before it can be used!"

"It's used for virgin _blood_," she answered.

"Are you trying to sabotage my entire life, or only this little bit of it?" he burst out.

"None of it," she replied, "well, I'm leaving _most_ of it alone."

He did not reply, only pulled his furs closer to his shivering body as a loud bell rang out through the building, resonating off the mouldy walls and shaking cobwebs. Glaring at her, he left the room hurridly, sliding past her and out into the corridor. The sound of pounding boots echoes up the long corridor and into the room as dozens of Deatheaters skittered up the stairs to answer the summons. Hermione pulled on her outer furs, and slipped out of the room when the sounds had faded into the distance.

The corridors were completely empty and iced over. The floors were slippery underfoot as she skated over them on a pair of soft dragon-hide boots with pointed toes. When she reached the staircase she dropped to her knees, and then stretched the length of her body on the floor. There was a tiny crack in the wall through which she fed a thread, and then fished the opposite end through a pair of glasses she had propped on her nose simultaneously.

The Deatheaters were gathered in their ranks, stiffly standing to attention as they gazed at the front of the room in perfect unison and devotion. Each one of them wore their gruesome silver skull mask over their faces; pointlessly, they all knew who the others were, their families, their occupation, and the angle of the attack. At the front of the wide room stood a huge, velvet covered armchair with a curving back and long legs. Voldemort sat upon this, lanky legs touching the ground easily as the right limb folded over the left elegantly. He wore no mask, but surveyed his followers through sharp, red eyes fringed by heavy black lashes and no eyebrows, fingers tapping on the edge of the armchair in a rhythm of death.

Wormtail stood behind him, crouched close to the roaring fire as he watched with fearful eyes, nursing his silver hand. Severus Snape stood half a step behind the Dark Lord, looking at the assembled ranks over his long, aquiline nose with disdain in his obsidian eyes. The room was utterly silent apart from the dancing of Voldemort's fingers.

"My Deatheatersss," Voldemort hissed, "sssoon we will be conquerorsss as mighty asss any barbarian!"

The Deatheaters and Snape looked at each other silently. Wormtail, with his limited experience of muggle history from Percy Weasley's long lectures, shivered a little.

"Draco Malfoy, come forward."

There was a ripple in the ranks as Draco Malfoy left the head of his parade, swathed in furs and silver mask. The other Deatheaters moved as little as possible so his fur scraped along theirs, and his blonde hair streamed out a little behind him. Even behind his mask the classically Greek face was clear in its beauty and grace.

"My Lord," he murmured softly, dropping to his knee in front of the Dark Lord, "I live only to serve you."

"Of courssse you do, Malfoy," Voldemort gestured for the young man to stand up, and he did so, "and ssso I have a ssspecial tasssk for you."

"I am honoured, my Lord."

"Potter isss in London again, the foolisssh boy. No one elssse isss aware he isss there; he left Birmingham three hoursss ago by muggle transssport and arrived in Victoria Ssstation momentsss ago. He will be ssstopped before he reachesss Hogwartsss and hisss friendsss."

"My Lord, you honour me indeed," simpered Malfoy.

"Take twenty-five of your regiment with you; go now!"

Malfoy dropped away smoothly, waving a hand at the regiment which stood to the left side of the hall. Discreetly, twenty five Deatheaters detached themselves from the main group and flocked behind Malfoy, adjusting the snug fit of their masks as they dropped into a neat two-by-two file after him.

Hermione tugged the string behind her and wound it around her wrist as she slid back to the rooms she occupied. As she threw the door open, the thread gleamed in the dim light reflected off the ice and span around so quickly it looked like a single silver thread. She touched her fingers to it and it stopped in a stream of silver; wrapped around her wrist was a thin silver bracelet closely moulded to her bones and topped with a tiny diamond in the centre. Heavy feet faded into the distance, and she crossed to the window which overlooked the front of the disused factory.

The Deatheaters were standing in a loose group, still in lines. Their clothing had changed from the thick, heavy robes to muggle clothing; each was dressed in a pair of pale, stonewashed jeans and a black long sleeved t-shirt. Malfoy stood in front of them, a head above the rest. His distinctive blonde hair was folded into a baker-boy cap, from under which his displeasure beamed. Potter knew that hair so well it was a liability. He barked a few commands from behind the misty glass Hermione was watching him through, and the Deatheaters slid into positions.

Before they had even apparated out of the factory courtyard, Hermione was out of the room and slipping down the stairs silently. Faintly, she could hear the sounds of Voldemort's voice and screaming. The empty dormitories presented no problem to her; she ice on the floor meant she whipped past them so quickly that even if the Deatheaters had been inside them, they couldn't have seen anything. Her furs were discarded on the bed outside, so that when she crept out of the small door that led into the courtyard from the disused kitchen, her breath caught painfully in her chest, paralysing her for a precious second as she gasped.

Once she had reached the shelter of the sparse tree tops, she fumbled with the bracelet on her hand. Wrenching it, the diamond dropped into her palm and she held it up close to her face and exhaled on to it.

There was an instant reaction; the stone cackled as if it was trying to find a signal, and then hummed a low note that carried only to Hermione's freezing, red ears.

"In the station…"

"It's me!" Hermione had no time to listen to the tail end of Ginny Weasley's conversation.

"Hermione!" the younger girl was pleased to hear from her, after three weeks of silence.

"Ginny, there are Deatheaters coming after Harry right now – he's at Victoria station. Draco Malfoy and twenty-five others."

"Malfoy?"

There was a loud, dull noise like two hundred boots hitting the floor simultaneously.

"Hermione, don't worry if it's Malfoy."

"What? No, I have to go."

Ginny's voice was cut off as Hermione shook her hand violently and pressed the small diamond back against her silver bangle. There was another low reverberation that shook the loose, freshly dropped snow from the tips of the trees. Hermione scrambled across the snow; arms and legs slipping out from under her as she spun over the frozen white tundra. As she burst into the unused kitchen there was a thin, reedy scream; as she fell up the stairs it burst into sobbing wrenches of sound; as she threw herself into the darkened safety of Snape's room it stopped abruptly.

Snape swept through the doors moments later to find her scrubbing at the dingy piece of velvet that served him as carpet, her bottom waving from the effort she was putting into the wild movements. She looked up at him as if she was a deer caught in headlights, face blotchy and red. Her nose was peeling a little at the end from the exposure to the biting temperatures outside the factory, and her fingers which seized the scrubbing brush so tightly were blackish blue at the knuckles.

"You're back quickly," she noted coolly.

He didn't answer her, but stepped quickly over to the shelves stacked full of ingredients and pulled out a large trunk from underneath two jars of boomslang skin and a decapitated, floating goat head. The wide, vacantly dead eyes met with Hermione's brown ones as she focused on Snape's jerking, rapid movements. He was wrapping his long, thin fingers round each jar and wrapping it in white cotton before he stacked it into the box.

"Go and wash those cauldrons!" he snapped.

She picked up the two bronze cauldrons, and then, on a whim, the virgin-blood bowl still half filled with porridge. As she went to leave the room, she glanced back to see Snape folding his robes erratically and dropping them into the trunk. Frowning, the girl left the doors open and padded along to the end of the corridor. There was a tap there; the fountain sticking out awkwardly from the cement wall with a strip of black velvet wrapped around the exposed copper pipe.

She crouched down next to the tap and turned it on. As it spluttered and spat, footsteps thundered up the stairs accompanied by heavy breathing and a string of swearwords. Turning, she glimpsed Blaise Zabini, his ebony skin obvious under the white bone and silver mask he wore, before he burst into Snape's room. Leaving the tap filling the larger bronze cauldron, she slipped along the wall next to the doors.

"We have to leave in the next five minutes!" Zabini was whispering to Snape urgently.

"What reason does the Dark Lord give?" Snape replied, but he approached the door nevertheless.

"Draco has not signed in."

She saw the dark shadow that was Snape hesitate before the door, and shrank backwards.

"Have none of his company reported back?"

"No!" Zabini was flustered, "The Lord thinks he has perished!"

"Dead?" Snape sighed heavily, "It does not surprise me unduly."

Hermione bent down over the cauldron again as Snape burst out of the room. He seized her arm suddenly and tugged her upright roughly, away from the cauldron.

"Come on," he roared roughly, "we must move before the advantage is lost."

Hermione was briefly aware that Zabini had vanished, taking their trunk with him, before she felt herself being tugged from the corridor and spread over along distance as they apparated.

The water from the tap overflowed through the floor and froze in stalagmites suspended from the cracked ceilings, and then froze inside the cauldron. The porridge sat there, oats pasted to the edge of the ruined bowl.


	4. Of New Camp and Compassion

**Faith For The Faithless**

**Chapter Four: A New Camp and Compassion**

Ginny Weasley stood up stiffly and bent her knees a little to stretch the joints out. She had been crouched on the frozen ground for five minutes and the frost had already covered her red hair with a thin layer of ice.

"They've been gone for at least three hours," she announced, her voice muffled through the woollen balaclava she wore.

"You didn't expect them to stay, surely?"

The dark skinned Auror who had replied tartly was standing in the doorway, swathed in layers of wool and fur. His face, apart from the dark brown eyes which gazed at her, was covered in garb similar to what she wore.

"Of course not," she snapped, pulling her fingers into her sleeves and curling her hands into fists to preserve any warmth that was left, "but some sort of sign might have been nice!"

"Like 'hello, Ginny, sorry we missed you'? 'Cos I don't think that would have been likely. Never mind, maybe the next time they'll invite you in for some hot skilly."

"Shut up Kingsley!"

They stood in silence for a few second; clouds of vapour from their breath rising between them so they could barely see each other. Finally Ginny shrugged, although the gesture was completely blanketed by the clothing she wore.

"Look, let's just go home, alright. It's so cold."

"It's bloody Russia!" Kingsley bellowed, "Of course it's bleeding-well _cold_!"

Ginny reigned in her anger tightly, revelling in the feeling of warmth her sluggish magic gave when it trickled down her arm in response to the emotion. Without another word she disappeared, only the icicle of a pop left behind her. With a furious growl, Kingsley Shacklebolt vanished after her, his pop echoed by the loud sneeze which would haunt him all the way back to drizzly England via several floo-ports and apparating stops.

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"Hvem er De?"

The man opposite them regarded the pair in furs with distinct suspicion from behind his scarf. A thick woollen hat was pulled down over his ears and he wore a chunky wool jumper, but no coat. There was a little snow lingering on the ground, but most of it had been burnt off by a warming sun which stood at its highest point in the sky. When they did not answer him, he attempted to talk again.

"Hva er De gjøre på min eiendom?"

Suddenly he pitched forward towards them with an expression of horror etched on his ruddy features. Hermione leapt back as far as Snape's firm grip on her would allow. Above the man's body stood Blaise Zabini with his wand out, still emitting a little green residual magic. His face was stretched in a grin as he began removing his furs and bundling her underneath his arm. Their trunk sat in the garden next to him, half on top of a large growth which was probably some sort of crop.

"That was hasty, Zabini," Snape rebuked, turning the man over with a boot, "he could have been useful."

"Or he could not have been," argued the younger man, picking one end of the trunk up and beginning to pull it towards the squat building just a few feet away from them.

" Hjelp!" echoed out suddenly, a frantic, terrified scream.

Snape and Zabini did not seem to wish to hurry towards the woman's ultimate demise, and ducked their heads as they entered the house. It was as well they had as a stunner flew past them and into the fields; Lestrange was standing with his wand out and two bodies at his feet, his mask dangling idly from his fingers and his furs half off.

"Such a pleasure for you to join me," he lisped out, spittle flying from his wide mouth.

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The central commands of the Order of the Phoenix were assembled in Albus Dumbeldore's former office at the top of the spiral staircase protected by an angry gargoyle. All four of them were listening intently to the pair who had returned from Russia several hours earlier with frowns on their faces. Arthur Weasley was sucking on a piece of Droobles' Best Behaviour Gum, which did not swell up and blow noisy bubbles as the original gum did, but retained the long-lasting flavour; Remus Lupin was tapping a quill against the table top while Minerva McGonagall scribbled notes on a long piece of parchment despite the enchanted quill flying over a similar piece a few feet away. A small, withered looking woman with a large hat on seemed to be staring at a whirling piece of golden machinery but her ears were perked forward and her elbows, firmly planted on the table, twitched a little when the speakers exchanged narratives.

"…And well, that's it," Ginny finished, shrugging her shoulders a little at their surprise, "I mean, there were definite signs that they had been there, but no-one was left behind."

Arthur Weasley frowned in consternation.

"What was left behind?" he asked, passing the sweet from one cheek to another as he tried to work out this problem.

"Rubbish," Kingsley answered moodily, "just old toot that they clearly hadn't thought worth taking with them."

"No," Ginny's mouth stretched into a thoughtful line, "I don't think so. I think they left in a hurry. I mean," she began to clarify seeing the puzzled faces, "some of the stuff left there was quite valuable. Look at this."

From the pockets of her jeans she pulled a small gold object roughly the size of a silver sickle and placed it on the table in front of McGonagall, who regarded it with suspicion. Tapping it sharply she murmured a few words and the object grew until it was the size of a dinner plate.

"What is it?" asked a puzzled Arthur.

"It's a bowl," Lupin leant over the table, nose quivering with excitement, "look at the runes on it. It's for the collection of blood, I would imagine. They're terribly expensive and have to be kept pure at all times."

"So what's the stuff on it?" the elderly lady, who had been about to poke the crust on the bowl with a swollen finger, "doesn't look like blood, or like it's been kept pure."

The six of them stared at the bowl for a moment until McGonagall broke into a smile.

"Porridge!" she announced, "It's porridge! Can't you see the oats?"

"Why, yes, of course," Lupin turned the bowl over in his hands, "indeed it is."

"So either they're getting sloppy and leaving items like these lying around for some reason," Ginny concluded, "or they left in a real panic."

"Or," Kingsley's face broke into a smile, "a _certain somebody's _found _Snape _and is intent on ruining his equipment."

"Thank you, Ginny, Kingsley, if you could just monitor the communication devices at all times please? The last tip-off was a good one and our quick response certainly surprised You-Know-Who," the old lady looked rather pleased, "these muggle devices seem to be working superbly!"

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The apprentice was sitting on the edge of Snape's bed with her legs folded up underneath her and her bushy head lowered to the piece of parchment she was holding. Three simmering cauldrons sat along the narrow wall, leaving very little floor space. Two were protected by bubble charms to keep the fumes firmly held; the other was spewing a delicious smell throughout the room.

Sighing, Hermione stood up from the bed and leant over the cauldron with a ladle. She was stirring it slowly when the door flew outwards and Snape stamped into the room, knocking slush off his black boots and onto the rug covered floor. His face was set into a firm scowl and his lips were tightly pursed.

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing?" he bellowed, kicking irritability at her.

She didn't answer, and made no noise when the toe of his boot caught her elbow with a slapping noise. Instead she held the ladle, full to the brim with whatever was in the cauldron, out to him and buried into the trunk to find a spoon.

"What is this?" he grouched.

"Stew."

"_Where _did you get the _bleeding food_?"

"What's happening out there?" she asked instead of replying to his question.

"Nothing of your concern," he snapped, folding his long legs underneath the bed with a grimace.

The stew was hot, although it didn't really taste of anything, and spicy and warmed him through to his freezing toes. It was nowhere near as cold as Russia, but it rained perpetually leaving all the Deatheaters with wet furs and bedraggled hair. Hats slid down over faces, furs stank to high heaven, men sneezed and wheezed all over the place.

Hermione sat next to him on the bed while he gulped down the meal; it scalded his throat slopped down the front of the filthy fur he wore. She refilled the ladle without any prompting while he climbed out of his coat, and then began unbuttoning his shirt as he sat and ate his fill. Her nimble fingers danced in and out of the horn buttons and pulled it off his aching shoulders, folding it neatly and laying it over the end of the large bed. His boots came off next while he had another fill of stew, sucking any goodness he could out of the thinly diced rements of vegetables and meat. Soon he sat naked but for the briefest of his underwear and she pulled off her own damp clothing.

"In," he gestured towards the side of the bed furthest from the door, next to the wall, scowling.

She complied and pulled the blankets up around herself. His thin body was pressed next to hers, the wet furs steamed a little in the heat and threw off the scent of animals and men living together, and she slept.

"Stupid girl," he groused, wrapping an arm around her warmth, "stupid, _stupid _girl. Why did you even come here?"

If anyone had heard they might have said that underneath the fury there was the barest slice of compassion in his voice.

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"Hvem er De?" Who are you? _Norwegian_

"Hva er De gjøre på min eiendom?" What are you doing on my property? _Norwegian_

"Hjelp!" Help! _Norwegian  
_

_All translations are rough estimations only_


	5. The Transition

**Faith for the Faithless**

**Chapter Five: The Transition**

Peter Pettigrew knocked on the wooden door rather nervously, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid that Voldemort was going to appear out of the room at the very end of the corridor. What appeared out of the door in front of the rodent-like man was not much better; Severus Snape had his wand clasped quite firmly in his fingers and his shirt was only half buttoned which meant, Pettigrew registered with horror, that he had been interrupted in the process of getting dressed.

"Severus," he squeaked, backing away from the door, "our Lord wishes to see you."

Almost immediately Snape finished fastening the buttons on his shirt and turned his back on Pettigrew to gesture to someone within the room. Pettigrew, who had almost forgotten about the girl he had, craned his neck and stood on tip-toes to better see into the cramped room, but the arrival of a lithe, unclothed arm carrying a thin fur blocked his vision of whomever the arm belonged to.

"Well move then," snapped the dark man to Pettigrew, shrugging the fur onto his shoulders and clasping it in front of his neck.

"Of course," Pettigrew scampered off down the corridor with Snape behind him, long legs pounding out the rhythm onto the floor.

The room which Snape had to duck his head to enter was heated so highly that it was akin to strolling into a furnace. The floor was covered with an old, faintly threadbare, Persian rug, patterns meandering this way and that. A large bed, covered with thick furs, had a skimpy pallet of straw lying at the end with Pettigrew's wand lying haphazardly on it.

The Dark Lord himself was sitting in a large chair that Pettigrew had dragged from the kitchen, directly in front of a roaring fireplace. He was huddled in strings of clothing and fur; only his face was uncovered and red eyes bored into Severus' black ones.

"Ssseverusss," he hissed, "I have missssed you since we moved."

"My Lord," Severus dropped to one knee and held his face down so that he was studying the carpet, "I am afraid to tell you that I have had to step in to deal with some reactions to our new settings."

It was certainly truth; the Deatheaters had been significantly less than impressed to discover that their accommodation in this camp was simply the cattle sheds and vast quantities of hay.

"They do not like Norway?" Voldemort sounded faintly amused.

"Indeed no," Snape rolled his eyes a little as Voldemort gestured to him to seat himself in a chair opposite, "there have been strong words used and a little violence as well to convey their contempt of Scandinavia in general."

Before Voldemort could reply to Snape, a loud banging jumped through the room from the courtyard. Pettigrew, eager as always, leapt towards the window and opened it violently, allowing a freezing breeze to swirl through the room. The dark Lord shook and huddled into his furs.

"It's Farierr and Jetton!" he cried out, "They're casting curses at each other!"

"Shut that window!" Voldemort shouted suddenly and Pettigrew dropped it in his alarm, "Ssseverusss, go and ssstop that noissse anyway you pleasssse."

Obediently Snape stood and left the room. Before he shut the door he heard the reedy voice cry out '_crucio_' and Pettigrew's screams of pain followed him into the bitter air outside. He followed the edge of the whitewashed house around to the courtyard where he found at least twelve men standing around, cheering on the offenders as they leapt and writhed. Their fur-clad bodies were pressed tightly together, but the bare feet or socks showed that the fight was hurried and probably over nothing more than a traded insult or scrap of bread.

The two combatants were dressed only in shirts and trousers; their robes and overcoats had been forgotten in their haste to inflict pain on one another. Breath and sweat rose like a cloud above them and the cheering amplified when Jetton stumbled over a loose slab of rock and seemed to fall. Farierr cast a red stream of _crucio_ at him, grinning all the while – it was he who had initiated the argument against his slower comrade.

"What is the meaning of this?" Snape bellowed furiously.

The looks on their faces were mutinous and angry; lips sneered and eyes glared at him as he withdrew his wand. Farierr stopped almost immediately, wand up his sleeve before Snape could even be sure that he had seen the thing, but Jetton cast another hasty, angry spell which bounced off the wall leaving a small, black scotch mark.

"This is mutiny!" Snape incited them; that was clear, "You have disturbed our Lord!"

He barely saw the deed, certainly not in time to stop the spell from hitting Jetton, as a bolt of green magic flew from Farierr's vicinity and struck the other man. The body kneeled over onto the frosty ground and sagged unpleasantly. Snape sneered and drew out his wand with a nasty look on his face, and his eyes narrowed until they resembled nothing more than tiny beetles set into his face.

"_Avada kedara_!" he called into the icy air, and Farierr joined his fellow.

There was a murmur around the courtyard and the remaining crowd vanished into the sheds to finish their sleeping shifts before guard duty called them, or some other onerous task befell them. Almost at that precise second, a Deatheater swathed in thick furs came running up and swerved seeing Snape, falling panting to the favorite's feet.

"Sir!" he called out, his voice reedy enough to identify himself as a recent Hogwarts graduate, possibly as young as sixteen, "Sir! Please, we've got Malfoy at the guard post!"

"_Malfoy_?"

"Draco, sir," the messenger collected himself and rose to his feet, "Draco Malfoy. He sent me to get you, sir, to check that it was alright for him to come up to the Dark lord and report."

Snape gave no response, but turned on the heel of his immaculate boot and marched down the muddy land which ran from the house to the perimeters of the protected property. Magical wards had been established, but guards were still posted in pairs at the gate leading onto the fields to arrest the progress of any inquisitive muggles or wizards.

Draco Malfoy was standing next to a small fire, which they had disguised with a concealment charm, when Snape arrived with mud tracked right up to his thighs. The blonde man had his arms outstretched to the warmth and nothing but the torn jeans and shirt he had left for Muggle London in covering him from the cold.

"Severus!" he called as the older man stopped beside the fire, "It's been a while."

"This is no time for jests!" Snape snapped, "Come back to the house and explain yourself to the Dark Lord, and then put some decent clothes on!"

They walked up to the house in silence, their breath misting before their faces as they puffed in exertion. The lights were on in the house as the dim dusk fell over the fields and wrapped itself around spindly, wind blown trees. Snape let them into the house quickly, breaking past the wards with several passwords and a specific spell which glowed violet for a second or two.

The kitchen was filled with Deatheaters, all standing around various items of battered furniture and carrying mugs filled with a kind of soup, highly alcoholic, which was neither filling nor tasty. They were dipping their bread rations in it as they spoke in low murmurs, all conscious that their Lord was a few meters down the darkened hallway.

"Good evening," Draco sneered at them.

"Feck us all!" one exclaimed, profanity spilling from his mouth, "If it ain't fecking Malfoy!"

No one else said anything as the pair strode down the hallway, candles bobbing behind them, until they turned the sharp left of the passageway and talk swelled up behind them.

"Missed me then?" he mused, and Snape rolled his dark eyes.

"Of course we did, Malfoy," a voice said from a doorway.

Hermione was standing in the frame, door open behind her. Dressed in a woolen jumper and a pair of knickers, her feet and legs were naked and her hair sprang, unhindered, from her head in wild directions. In her hands she held a vial of boomslang skin suspended in red Animatus potion.

"What do you want doing with this?"

Snape, to whom her question was addressed, looked violated by her lack of dress.

"Go and put something else on, girl!" he commanded.

"I'm trying to wash," she answered, eyes still on Malfoy, "and how was your _little trip_?"

"Pleasant," he replied with a sneer, "but it would be better if my bed was all warmed up tonight. What do you say, Severus, I'll do you a swap."

"You have nothing to swap," Snape was not amused by the banter, "and Lord Voldemort is waiting for you."

"Goodnight Malfoy," Hermione called out as they moved away, "don't get frostbite!"

Malfoy looked as if he was going to lunge at her, but the door shut behind her with a small slam and he was thwarted.

"Missster Malfoy," Voldemort called, Snape next to him, "come in and ssshut the door. I find it rather chilly."

"My Lord;" Malfoy dropped to his knees in front of the fireplace, "allow me to apologize for being away from your side for so long. It was not intentional."

"I am sssure it wasss not," his Lord replied evenly, "but it dissspleasssed me. _Crucio_!"

Malfoy was aware of Snape watching while Pettigrew attempted to milk Nagini, who was coiled in a corner baring her fangs at the hapless wizard. A fiery pain spread through his limbs while he shrieked, writhing in abandon on the rug. Within seconds it was lifted and he was prostrate before Voldemort once more.

"Now, tell me everything."

"My Lord, Potter was at the train station as Snape had said, but there were…complications. He was obviously expecting an attack – there were at least thirty wizards and witches with him in the guise of muggles. As soon as we attacked Potter, they sprang on us. I was knocked unconscious by Potter himself within a few minutes; that is how unprepared we were!"

Pettigrew, transfixed, had stopped milking the snake and now she sat, hissing, on the bed.

"They carried me back to Hogwarts and bound me. My Lord, they have wild dragons there! One of them escaped, and while they were trying to regain control of the foul beast, I managed to escape. Luckily my party was still on the grounds; else I would not have managed this small feat."

"Dragonsss?" Voldemort's nostrils flared and he turned to Snape in fury, "Ssseverusss, why did you not tell me of thisss?"

"My Lord," Snape began, panic riding in his eyes briefly, but Voldemort stopped him:

"_Crucio_!"

He left Snape under the curse for longer than he had let Draco linger under its effects, so that when the red light faded Snape was bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth.

"I ssshall keep you here," Voldemort told him angrily, "for you did kill the old fool, and I do not forget the good deedsss of my ssservantsss easssily. However, the girl, the apprentice, ssshall be taken away from you."

"My Lord!" Snape choked out through a mouthful of blood.

"Sssilence!" Voldemort barked, "Return to your room immediately. Malfoy, you have done well. Sssnape, essscort the girl to Draco'sss room – the unusssed one opposssite yoursss."

Snape staggered to his feet and left the room with Draco following immediately on his heels. Both were surprised to see the girl standing out in the hall with a thick fur robe wound around her thin frame and another in her arms. On top of this robe was arranged several items of clothing and a few other knick-knacks she had stolen from Snape as cookery tools.

"I heard," she announced, gaze steadily focused on Malfoy.

As Snape whirled past her in a flurry of blood and fur she caught his eye, and thought she saw that the lines around his mouth had lessened a little in remorse. However, he pushed past her so quickly that it was difficult to say for certain.

"Looks like I'll have a warm bed tonight," Malfoy smirked and stamped into the room.

His room was smaller than Snape's; for he had no potions equipment, but his belongings had been transported over from Russia (some might accuse the Dark Lord of nostalgia). There was the traditional double bed, spread over with thick woolen blankets in a variety of bright colours. A few pillows lay at the head of the bed, and Malfoy's precious books and tomes spread over most of the narrow strip of floor.

Almost immediately there came a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal the timid face of Peter Pettigrew.

"My Lord invites you to sample a little fire-whisky with him," he stuttered, face crimson from suddenly coming out of the hot room and into the freezing hallway.

"Get that bed warmed up," Malfoy barked over his shoulder as he vacated the room.

Hermione paid him no heed as the door shut behind him, but dropped to her haunches and set up the cauldron she had carried over. The stew was still there; she had added another bird to it that she had caught by its round neck when transmitting to Ginny Weasley earlier, and a few turnips. She lit a fire underneath it and watched as it bubbled happily away, releasing warmth and steam into the room.

There was a bowl that she had taken from Snape's room and she dipped it into the hot broth hurriedly; wiping the rim as she hurried across the hallway and opened his door.

He was lying on the bed, underneath the covers, watching the ceiling and holding a freezing piece of cloth to his face, which was still bleeding. He cast a brief glance towards her as she shut the door and then announced, in a heavy sort of voice:

"You oughtn't to be in here. Where's Malfoy?"

"Having a drink with Voldemort," she answered, sitting on the edge of the bed once she had picked her way through the clouds of cauldrons.

He took the soup gratefully, turning on one side and propping himself up on an elbow to sup it straight from the bowl. As he drank and ate the covers slipped down and revealed a pale, sickly chest and a sparse covering of black hair. Hermione had slept alongside him every night for the last week and knew this, but it made her breath catch in her throat once more as she watched him eat hungrily like a small child.

Compassion overwhelmed her and she left the room, leaving Snape with his hunger abated and an odd feeling of regret in his stomach.

Malfoy returned to the room some time later, smelling of fire-whisky. Hermione, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed reading a novel about something she had no interest in, looked up when he came in and stood, watching him with wary eyes.

He crossed the room in two quick strides and enveloped her into his arms.

"God above," he whispered, "You're a sight for hopeless eyes."


End file.
